


you, but in westeros

by sad_clown_hours



Series: you, but in westeros [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Relationships, Crack Treated Seriously, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Time Travel Fix-It, i had a two hour massage and hallucinated this premise, i just came up with a way to avoid saying YN every goddamn second, if that annoyed you upon first read then hiya, or maybe just plain crack, so here yall go, sorry if yall thought i updated, the reader-insert absolutely no one asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2020-09-26 20:37:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20395804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sad_clown_hours/pseuds/sad_clown_hours
Summary: You wake up in Winterfell's godswood before the plot of the books even occurs. As a rabid GoT fan, you are pretty excited to be a player in the game.





	1. you i

**Author's Note:**

> I really don't anticipate anyone reading this- mainly because I probably wouldn't even click on it. But in case someone is interested, here it is. The beginning, at least. I'll post more if anyone's interested.

You are not where you are supposed to be when you wake up from your post-school nap. It’s subtle, but the reason you can tell is the quality of the air. Where you’re from, forests are unbearably humid. Here, though the greenery appears identical, the air is arid. It almost hurts to breathe. That’s your first sign that something is up. 

The next, of course, is the larger-than-life castle looming in the distance over the treeline. It’s almost like something out of Game of Thrones, you think. It’s medieval and in better shape than it probably should be. 

And then you realize a bunch of things at once: one, I wasn’t outside when I fell asleep; two, I don’t even live near any forests; and three, it’s fucking cold. 

Like, the kind of cold that could make you lose a couple of toes from frostbite if you aren’t careful. You can already feel your fingers getting numb. Your jeans are stiff and cold, and your stupid t-shirt from the Gap that your mom got you is soaked through with frost from laying on the ground. If you don’t get inside soon, you’re fucked. 

So you begin to move in the direction of the castle. At this point, your brain is processing nothing but thoughts of survival. There’s no time to consider how you got yourself into this predicament. All that matters is getting somewhere warm, and maybe even getting some food or water. 

As you trudge towards what seems to be a clearing, your numb feet crunch over layers of dried red leaves. You clutch your Swiss army knife to your chest in a desperate attempt to keep it from slipping through your wooden fingers. 

“Is someone there?” you hear from the clearing. Someone who can help, you think. You don’t even stop to consider why you trust the voice instinctively. Something about the timbre of the person’s voice is oddly reassuring but you can’t seem to piece together why. 

“Help,” you croak, before tripping into the clearing and passing the fuck out.

When you awaken, you grope frantically in the furs for your knife, and then the fact that you’re laying in actual furs occurs to you and you jerk upright, nearly falling out of the bed in the process. Someone’s warm hands gently ease you back onto the bed and you blink a couple of times, trying to adjust. A wrinkled man kneels in front of you wearing some weird-ass robes. You try not to hyperventilate. 

“W-Where am I?” you stutter. While you can feel your limbs now, it’s still difficult to speak. You suddenly become aware of the disturbing fact that you are most certainly not in the clothing you remember being in, which means someone changed you out of your clothes. And now you’re wearing something- well, you’re not totally sure what it is, but it seems to be a sort of woollen smock. You become nauseous. 

“Where are my clothes? And my knife? What is happening?” You blurt out. The old man looks slightly taken aback by your vehemence and shakes his head.

“My lady, you were found in the godswood last night, nearly frozen to death. You’re lucky he found you when he did, or you’d be dead,” the man replies.

“Who’s he?” you ask.

The man ducks his head and demurs.

“You said that you don’t know where you are, my lady. Is that true?” 

“Uh, yeah,” you say. 

“Oh dear, your head must have been hit harder than I thought.” He reaches to feel your forehead and you recoil. The man has the good grace to at least look embarrassed at trying to touch you without your permission. “We are in Winterfell, my lady.”

You give him the dirtiest look you can muster. Winterfell, my ass, you think. No way are you in fucking Westeros. 

“Yeah, no, really. Where the fuck am I?” 

He looks aghast at your language. “Winterfell,” he says much more shortly than the first time. 

“You’re shitting me,” you say. But then you look around. It does not look anything like what you know. The walls are all stone and there’s no actual lights, only torches hung on the walls and a fireplace in the corner of the room. Your bed is in the middle of the room. Fuck. You’re sixteen, simultaneously at your most cynical and most hopeful, and you’re tempted to believe this random old man, if only to make your daydreams a reality. 

“Who found me?” you find yourself asking. Your mind is distant, swirling with possibilities and fears. This could be good or it could be very, very bad. 

“Lord Stark’s bastard son, my lady. You need not concern yourself with him,” the man replies. 

“What’s his name?” 

“Jon Snow.”

Your stomach clenches. So this is real. Not only are you not going to make it back in time for dinner, you might not make it back at all. You have to adapt, and quickly.

“Ser,” you try, your demeanor shifting to one more polite and demure. You look down at your sorry-ass nightgown. “Is there any way I could get some proper clothing? I’d like to thank my savior.”

You either must be a better actor than you thought, or he’s a bigger idiot than you thought, because he smiles kindly and points to a bundle of cloth sitting on a chair in the corner of the room. 

“I will take my leave to let you change, my lady, but before you thank the boy you must answer to Lord Stark. Your arrival caused quite a stir, you know,” he says. You give what you hope is a grateful smile and wait for him to leave before you bury your head in your hands and groan.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you mutter angrily. You need a game plan, and fast. So. Ned Stark is alive, which means all the Starks are here in Winterfell. So it’s only a matter of when in the timeline you’ve arrived. 

Deciding that the best course of action is to observe first and act later, you pick up the bundle of cloth to find what you can only guess to be a petticoat, an overdress, and- most daunting of all- a front-lacing corset. Definitely not the usual. It takes less time than you think to don the apparel, and you can’t help but feel like an actor in a period drama. You take a deep breath before exiting the room. Here goes nothing.

As you walk the halls, you can tell that it’s daytime because of the hustle and bustle. You get stares, both polite and intrusive, as you trail after the man with your head bowed. You haven’t quite decided how to present yourself, so you just stick with quiet and hope it works. It seems like an eternity passes before the man gestures for you to step in front of him through a massive door. 

Yup. That’s him. Ned Stark, the man who unwittingly helps to start a war. What a guy.

“Maester Luwin,” Ned Stark says in greeting. Oh. So that’s who that old man is. 

The maester bows. “My lord, this is the girl,” he replies. Ned’s expression hardly flickers. You can’t tell where you stand here, and that is a problem. You step forward hesitantly and give a shallow approximation of a curtsey. You suddenly feel a rush of gratefulness for your obsession with medieval drama and that one time you were in Twelfth Night junior year. At least you can curtsey. 

“My lord,” you begin. The gears in your brain are spinning. Who are you, here? What is your identity? Why should Ned Stark not banish you from the keep? What makes you important?

“What is your name, child?” He says, not unkindly. You scramble. Should you give your real name? In a panic, you choose another. Alyse. “And you know how you were found?”

“Yes.” Then you pause. A brilliant idea comes to you. “But I can’t remember it, my lord.”

This makes Ned’s posture straighten infinitesimally as his frown lines deepen. There, you think. You’ve got him.

“None of it?” he questions. 

“I can only remember my name, and waking up in the forest, and then waking up here. Everything that came before that is… gone.” You put your hand to your heart in a show of discomfort. It’s not a lie. The past as you knew it no longer exists. There’s a long silence as ned ponders this. Luckily, Maester Luwin pipes in to break the awkwardness. 

“It seems to me that she has a rather severe head injury, my lord,” he says. “She will not recover her memories for some time, I’m afraid.” Okay, cool. You have the old man on your side. At least he can corroborate your story. Ned nods, and turns to his right to murmur something into the ear of a redheaded young man who you guess is Robb Stark. To your surprise, after some consideration, Robb is the one who speaks.

“My lady, I cannot in good conscience let you leave the keep without the proper care of a maester to heal you. In time, if you have not recovered memory of your past, we will find you a place in our household. Until then you are our guest,” Robb says decisively. He must be at least your age, though it’s difficult to tell. You know that he’s roughly sixteen when the books pick up, so you may have some time before shit hits the fan. But for right now, he’s granted you a major boon. 

“Thank you, my lord,” you say sweetly, curtseying again. Without preamble, you are promptly escorted out of their sight to a small but well-furnished chamber. To your great relief, your knife is on the dressing table next to a mirror. You tuck your knife in your skirt and flop on the bed, exhausted. You suppose you’re lucky you’re a girl- otherwise they would not have treated you half so kindly. There’s so much to think about that you can hardly see straight, and then you fall asleep. 

You don’t wake up until the next morning. Having apparently missed the memo about dinner, you could eat a horse right now. The pale yellow light of a cloudless morning shines through your lone window. The feeling of the sun beaming down on you is so similar to what you’re used to that you allow yourself a few seconds of pretending that nothing has changed, and you’re waking up in your own bed. But then you open your eyes to a dim torchlit chamber and remember. You’re here. You have no idea of what the hell is going on. And you have no future, for the first time in your life.

Your parents had always been kind and supportive, but they were also pretty dead set on your path. You were gonna go to some private university that would cripple you with student loan debt, but it would all go away once you finished med school and became a doctor. You couldn’t major in history or literature or the arts even if you wanted to. Since it seemed like that was the only choice, you were okay with it- or at least resigned to the inevitable. Lately, though, you felt detached from your own life, like none of it mattered. That was one of the reasons why you got so into Game of Thrones; the high stakes drama of Westeros was a story you wanted to participate in far more than your own. 

So what now? You can’t be a doctor here. You don’t really have anything that sets you apart from the smallfolk. The words of your mom, the ever-ambitious attorney, float through your head unbidden: “Find out what makes your case marketable, and sell it.” 

To survive, your job is to make yourself important to as many people possible. You have to entrench yourself into the lives of the major players in order to have a place in this world. And, like, all logic aside, this is an objectively cool situation to be in. You might as well make the most of it. 

You glance out the window. Outside, there are a few boys sparring in the courtyard. One is Robb Stark, as seen by his Tully hair, and the boy tailing him like a lost puppy must be Theon Greyjoy. The third boy is walking away from the other two, head down, dark curls spilling over his face.

Well, well, you think. If it isn’t Winterfell’s resident emo kid, Jon Snow. Why not begin your journey here, with one of the biggest players around? Even though the poor guy doesn’t know it yet, he is the literal embodiment of ice and fire. 

Plus, your mom would totally whoop your ass if you didn’t remember your manners and thank him.

This is a good idea, you tell yourself, and try to believe it’s true.


	2. jon i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon is trying to figure out who this girl is and why she's paying so much attention to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, so thanks to everyone who's been reading! Totally did not anticipate any sort of reception at all tbh. I have some of this written already, but I just started college so I won't have a whole lot of time to write. But still! I hope to get this series done. Anyways- enjoy!

Jon Snow is quite used to being the least favorite. Even Robb, his brother (half-brother, some small part of him hisses), never prioritizes him like he does his trueborn siblings. No matter the fact they are close in age or that they were raised closely beside one another. Robb is Lord Stark’s eldest trueborn son, and has little time, now that he is older, to cater to his bastard brother. 

Not that he would dare speak of this to anyone, mind you- Jon knows his place in the household. Lady Stark has continually made a point of it all his life. He is destined to be forgotten someday, with no family to truly call his own. There’s freedom in being unnoticed too, Jon notes, seeing the pressure put on Robb as the Stark heir. And if Jon is anything, it is unnoticed. 

When Jon was kneeling in the godswood, praying for some unattainable fantasy of being loved and accepted, he had heard the shuffling of feet among the leaves. His hackles had risen. He was no great swordsman by any means, but he had the instinct of a seasoned warrior and acted as such.

Much to his surprise, the threat he had been wary of was just a girl. One who had clearly spent far too much time outside in far too little in the way of clothing. Until he finds the odd girl wandering the godswood in naught but an arm-baring tunic and breeches. She was close to freezing, by the looks of it; her strange garb was not suited for the harsh conditions of the North. Her hair was mussed and in an arrangement Jon had never seen the ladies in Winterfell wear. And the closer she approached, the more questions were raised by her appearance. 

Jon was no hero. He was no Florian to this girl’s Jonquil, but all the same, when she collapsed to the frost-spiked ground, he scooped her into his arms and made haste to the maester’s chambers. She was barely awake and kept murmuring things he couldn’t hear. Her ice-cold hands clutched his furs as though clinging to life. Jon had been ashamed at how nice it felt to be needed. 

He hasn’t seen her since then, and he truly doesn’t know if he’d care to. Jon had told Lord Stark and Robb of what he had found, and knows that if they offer her hospitality, she’s unlikely to even think about him while basking in the warmth of the Stark family’s kindness. So he throws himself into what he’s good at, swordplay, and tries to forget about the one moment in which he was the hero from the songs. 

Theon Greyjoy and Robb are bantering and palling around after their match when Jon feels a set of eyes on him from afar, and cannot help the way every nerve in his body stands on end at the feeling. Before long, his eyes settle on the girl, who is staring at him with unabashed interest at the edge of the courtyard. They make eye contact in silence before Theon, prickish Theon, notices where Jon’s looking and butts in.

“What’s this?” he crows. “Jon Snow, you dog, who is she?” 

Jon closes his eyes in exasperation as Theon claps him roughly on the shoulder. 

“I didn’t know you had it in you!” Theon says. Robb looks askance at the girl. She’s still fixedly staring at Jon, which is more than a little confusing when Robb and Theon, the usual ladies’ men, are right there. 

Jon moves toward her subconsciously when Robb’s hand on his shoulder stops him. 

“Jon,” Robb tells him seriously, “She doesn’t remember anything. Be careful.” 

Jon knows; Maester Luwin had told him about the girl’s meeting with Lord Stark. He told Jon that it was of paramount importance not to disturb her too much lest her condition worsen. But it seems like the girl wants to talk to him, not Robb or Theon, and Jon cannot think of another reason for her to be here.

He keeps walking towards the girl, who seems a little surprised- or maybe frightened, he’s never been good at reading such things, that’s what Robb does- that he is actually approaching her. But much to Jon’s ever-growing curiosity, the girl straightens her back and meets him in the middle with a tight embrace. Jon stiffens in her grasp. She seems to realize her impropriety, so she draws back abruptly, blushing fiercely. Her fingers knot themselves together as she frowns down to herself. She looks up.

“I’m told that you’re the one who saved me, Jon Snow,” she says with a small but sweet smile. She looks him directly in the eye and holds out her hand as if to shake it. Determined not to neglect his courtesies, Jon takes her hand gingerly and places a gentle kiss on her knuckles. The girl breathes in sharply, ripping her hand out of his as if scalded. Jon feels a red heat flush through his body accompanied by a familiar feeling of disappointment and shame. She notices, and places her hand on his shoulder. He looks at it with shock and she drops it with visible embarrassment. 

“I- I just wanted to thank you for doing what you did for me. You were very kind, and very gallant.” The girl nearly stutters over her words in that strange accent of hers. A rather different sort of heat floods his cheeks now. 

“My lady,” Jon begins, then clears his throat. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. You know my name, and I don’t know yours.” 

“My name is- Alyse,” she says. 

“Alyse,” he repeats. It’s a pretty name. She smiles more brightly and openly now. Jon can’t help but notice how lovely her smile it is. It’s as though her smile spreads warmth to whoever she favors; and as Jon is the one being smiled at, he is basking in the glow. He grins back unreservedly. She chews on her lip absentmindedly. 

“Would you- that is, if it wouldn’t be any trouble for you- could you show me around the keep sometime? It’s all pretty new to me and I don’t know my way around yet.” 

Robb and Theon are probably gaping openly by now at this strange, friendly yet friendless, girl who dares to be kind to surly bastard Jon Snow. This doesn’t bother Jon at all. For once, he is the one holding the attention of a pretty girl, not them, and it may be craven, but a large part of him is pleased at the thought. 

“Perhaps before dinner tonight, my lady?” Jon answers smoothly, bolstered by the shocked (jealous?) reactions of his brothers. Alyse nods, and he gives her a short bow before returning to the training yard to resume sparring. When he chances a look back, he sees her smiling at him before glancing disinterestedly at Robb and Theon and leaving in a sweep of skirts. 

His heart thumping wildly, Jon pretends to be more interested in the ties of his leather armor than in what just happened, although he is reeling inside. 

“What in the Seven Hells was that?” Robb asks, brows furrowed and nose crinkled. Jon bristles. It isn’t too unbelievable that the girl would thank him after he saved her. 

“She was thanking me,” Jon replies. He hopes that they can’t tell how hard he is trying to remain nonchalant. 

“She was flirting with you, Snow,” Theon says. “She looked like she would fuck you here and now if she could get away with it.”

“Hey,” Jon warns. He doesn’t know this girl particularly well, but feels compelled nonetheless to defend her honor. She was grateful, that was all; there were no ill or improper intentions in her behavior. 

“I don’t usually agree with Theon, but I think he’s right,” Robb says. “No lady would be so… open, in displaying her affections, if she didn’t want you. But you must be discreet, Jon. She’s our guest, and Father would be upset if he was to find out that she was dishonored under our roof.”

“I’m not going to dishonor her! Gods, you’d think I’m some sort of charlatan by the way you’re talking!” Jon hisses. “What kind of man would I be if I took advantage of a helpless girl?”

“She’s not helpless if she wants it,” Theon pipes up. Jon gives him a dirty look. Of course Theon would think like that. He’s always been a rogue when it comes to women, and it seems that this girl is no different. 

“If you’re not going to do anything, I will,” Theon says with a smirk on his face that Jon would usually ignore, but can’t honorably do so now. “She’s gonna be begging for it by the time that I-”

Theon doesn’t get the chance to finish speaking, though, because by then Jon’s fist has fully connected with his nose. Theon trips over his own feet, reeling back; and Jon stares at his bloody knuckles like he isn’t sure what just happened. Robb looks down at Theon, then at Jon. 

“Walk it off,” Robb says in his best imitation of Lord Stark. Jon doesn’t argue. He just leaves.


	3. you ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You are really bad at lying, but somewhat good at telling only half of the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm really gonna keep going with this story huh

You pace outside of the Great Hall for what feels like hours before Jon shows up. You know that you were really, really out of line today by hugging him, but it was instinctual. Jon Snow is the kind of guy you can’t help but want to hug. Plus, he saved you, and his face seems to be set in a permanent frown. There are totally worse things you could do to mess up the timeline.

Besides, this hopefully will endear you to him, and it couldn’t hurt to have a foothold with at least one member of the Stark clan, no matter if he’s a bastard or not. You (almost) feel guilty for using him like this, but there is a rather large part of your “enamored maiden” facade that is genuine. What can you say? Who could fault you for choosing the most huggable person in Winterfell to latch onto? 

You’d never admit this out loud, but Jon Snow is one fine piece of man meat. You don’t have real goals in Westeros right now, because you don’t want to mess up canon too badly, but if the opportunity arose, you would most certainly hit that. If only it wouldn’t be viewed as sinful. 

Jon clears his throat, causing you to jump a little bit. You grin brightly at him. For all intents and purposes, you are no longer Y/N, the ambitious and sarcastic high school student; you are Alyse, the sweet, naive, ladylike guest of the Starks. That doesn’t mean you can’t carry your knife with you, though. Even sweet girls like you need to be able to protect themselves. 

“My lady.” He nods in greeting then proffers his arm to you. You take it hesitantly, not really sure of the etiquette on this type of situation. Jon begins to guide you away from the hall towards the yard he was training in earlier. 

“Where to first, my lord?” You chirp. Jon blushes.

“I’m no lord, Alyse. I’m just a bastard,” he mumbles. You stop abruptly. This self-deprecating bullshit is gonna get real old, real fast. Gotta nip that shit in the bud.

“Look at me. The reason I called you my lord is because you deserve the title and because I wanted to call you it. I don’t care if you’re a bastard. You have behaved more lordly than anyone I’ve ever met,” you say hotly. You might be giving too much away, but Jon has to have some confidence in himself, right?

“My lady, I-” Jon starts, and stops, looking at his feet. His brows furrow. Then he looks up at you, eyes shining. “Thank you.”

You are thisclose to blowing everything by flippantly responding with “No prob, bob,” but you stop yourself in time. You compose yourself and reply, “Let’s go, shall we?” 

Dinner is hearty, but still. They want you to eat mutton. You sit across from Jon, as he is not permitted at the high table with the rest of the Starks. Classist nonsense. You have to suppress your feelings of resentment toward Ned Stark for putting his nephew in this position. 

However, this also means that you have to sit near Theon Greyjoy and his gaggle of adoring girls vying for a place in his bed. You can’t blame them; he’s a handsome guy. But what kills his attractiveness is how much he takes advantage of his looks. It’s more than a little bit of a turn-off. And whenever you look at him, all you can see is the broken creature he’ll become at the hands of Ramsay Bolton. So in response to his proximity to you, you face fully towards Jon and wholeheartedly ignore Theon. 

“What do you do around here for fun, Jon?”

“Fun?” His forehead wrinkles. “I mostly train.” You gape at him. 

“You’re telling me that all you do to enjoy yourself is beat other people with sticks?” 

“It’s not just that,” he says indignantly. “There’s skill to be learned, and-”

You cut him off with an amused laugh. “Relax. I was joking. You must be good at swordplay after all these years of training with the other boys in the castle.”

Jon shrugs. He’s genuinely humble. After years of living in a world where every accomplishment is boasted on Instagram, it’s nice to meet someone who isn’t just fishing for compliments. 

“I’m alright, I suppose. Our instructor says Robb is better.”

“Mmm. I’m sure. Nobody would just say that because he’s Lord Stark’s eldest and needs to be the best in all things, I suppose, would they?” You ask innocently. Jon hides a grin. You suddenly have an idea. 

“Jon- may I ask a favor of you?” 

His eyes widen in curiosity. “What favor?”

“Do you know how to use a knife?”

Jon looks at you suspiciously.

“Aye. I do.”

“Could you teach me to wield one?”

Jon balks. Seeing that you’re losing him, you backtrack. “It’s only- well, after that night, I found a knife in my possession, and I want to know how to use it so that if I’m ever alone, I can save myself instead of needing to be saved.” 

“Y/N, could you tell me something?” he asks solemnly. You frown. He’s supposed to help you, not ask questions. 

“...Yes?”

“You said earlier that I was better than any man you’d known. But you also told Lord Stark that you can’t remember anything. At all. Which is true?”

Fuck. You should have known that the most honorable kid in Westeros would be the first to call you out on your charade. What’s a good excuse? 

“My lord,” you start, trying to look as harmless as you can, “I was not lying when I said that I do not remember. It’s just that- well, this sounds crazy. You wouldn’t even believe me.”

You look down and bite your lip. If Margaery Tyrell could play everyone like a fiddle, so could you, goddamnit. Lucky for you, Jon takes the bait.

“Believe you about what?” 

“I have flashes. Of the past. Not just mine, but others’ too, and sometimes flashes of the future and present. I can’t remember anything about me, it’s true, but I know things about people. And those are the memories I carry with me when I speak of the hearts of men.” 

It’s a gamble, making yourself out to be some kind of psychic, but if Jon believes you, then that’s one less person you have to guard yourself around. Plus, it’s kind of a cool picture to paint of yourself. The mysterious, magical girl found lost in the woods- who wouldn’t want to be that?

He looks at you- not unbelievingly, but dubiously. Your mind races. How do you prove your knowledge without giving away the future? You suddenly remember a throwaway line from one of the earlier seasons of the show. 

“Lady Stark,” you say suddenly. “She’s always resented you, but when you got the pox, she kept vigil at your side until you awoke.”

Jon pales. 

“How could you know that?” 

“I told you, I just- I just see these things. Or, I know them. Sometimes it’s visions, and sometimes it’s just truth,” you say. You’re not completely lying. Well, you mostly are, but the scraps of what you remember of canon sometimes assault you all of a sudden. You don’t remember everything at once. You can even feel the old life slipping away, little by little. The confusion and desperation in your voice- that’s no lie.

Jon nods slowly. He still doesn’t fully believe you, but he’s clearly trying. He doesn’t have the ability to think you are capable of lying. Your stomach twists. Just because you’ve told the lie doesn’t mean you have to like it. 

“I believe you, Alyse.” Jon nods more decisively now. It seems that he has made up his mind to trust you. It touches you more than you can say, to have won the regard of a man that is so prominent in your world. He has always been one of your favorite characters, and now you get to be a part of his life the way he was a part of yours. You place your hand over his on the table.

“Thank you,” you whisper fiercely. There’s a moment- brief in its length, but miles long in depth- where you look into his gray eyes and feel yourself known. It’s as if Jon Snow, for all the mistakes he’s destined to make, chooses to believe you and in you, for reasons beyond his comprehension, and yet he accepts his dearth of knowledge as an immutable fact and not an obstacle to his regard. 

This moment is, of course, ruined by Theon seconds later. He slams his keg down in between you two. Ale sloshes over the rim. 

“What is it, Greyjoy?” Jon asks tersely. Theon smirks. His lip is split and bruised, but somehow he’s still smiling like an asshole.

“Why don’t you introduce me to your friend?” Theon says. He looks you over lasciviously. You wrinkle your nose. You’ve never been one to particularly enjoy the male gaze.

Still, you square your shoulders and meet his eyes. 

“My name’s Alyse,” you say. The name comes more easily to you now. You try to project an air of confidence. These types of dudes can smell weakness like a shark smells blood. There’s a word for the kind of guy he is, where you come from: fuckboy. And fuckboys activate your fight-or-flight instinct like nothing else. You fidget in your seat, ready to bolt. Theon claps his hand on your shoulder and you grimace. Big yikes.

“Beautiful name for a beautiful girl,” he leers. “What’s a woman like you doing with a boy like Snow?” Your gaze slides to Jon, who looks as though he sorely wishes to be anywhere but here. Great. The hero of the story himself isn’t going to intervene. 

“Trust me, he wouldn’t know where to put his cock if he tried. You look like the type to need a real man to satisfy you.” The way Theon’s chest puffs indicates that he thinks that he is the man for the job. “I’d be happy to show you, little Alyse.” 

The way Theon says your name makes an ill feeling snake down your back. Gods, you had forgotten how rapey Game of Thrones men are.

Jon seems just about as uncomfortable as you, but remains silent. You sigh; you really have to do all the work around here.

You turn back to Theon and smile falsely. 

“As kind as that offer is, I have to go,” you say. Jon snorts behind you. “Women’s troubles, you understand. If I don’t leave now, I’ll bleed through my skirts!” 

Theon looks suitably horrified. So does Jon, for that matter. Having made your point, you bow your head and hurry away. 

Fuck. You’re lost. You really thought that you had to go left out of the Great Hall, and then a right after the first flight of stairs, but this is definitely not your room. 

Ahead, you see a door that’s opened just a crack. Light is streaming out; this is probably the most well-lit place in the castle. You open the door wider to make sure no one is inside, then step in. 

It’s easily the most beautiful place you’ve ever seen. The high ceilings are painted much like Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel, except with figures and deities that aren’t yours to name. Books line shelves on the walls. Each one looks meticulously dusted. Clearly the Starks take care of their books. 

This is right up your alley. You were one of those kids that always seemed really smart in elementary school- teachers sung your praises till the cows came home - but as you got older and school got harder, you started lagging behind. Soon you were just as smart as everyone else. You still love to read, though, when you have the time. That’s one thing that adulthood will never be able to take from you. Without thinking, you run your fingers along the spines of the tomes, reveling in the familiar feeling of worn pages and cracked bindings. 

You pull a random book from the shelf above your head. What Daenys Dreamed, And Other Prophecies. Huh. Instinctively you flip the book over to check for a summary, but then realize that it’s Westeros, and also that the title is pretty self-explanatory. 

The dreamers are the survivors, history tells us. The dreamers’ blood runs through the veins of all those who seek to change the future as they see it. Daenys the Dreamer was one of the most notable of these, though many others have existed, do exist, and will exist. They have not the power of greenseers; the dreamers simply see through the lens of time and warp it to their will. Those who cannot change the future do not see it.

“You can read, then.” Ned Stark’s gruff voice echoes in the library.

You whip around, clutching the book to your chest. 

“My lord,” you stutter, trying your best to do a curtsy but probably failing miserably in your nervousness. “Yes, I can read.”

“Interesting, for a lowborn girl to be able to read. And write as well, I presume?” 

You nod.

He gestures towards the two seats across from each other, nearly facing the fireplace. You sit gingerly in the one closest to the door. Your hands are folded neatly in your lap. Of all days to forget what Mom said about sitting like a lady, you think.

“Worry not, child. I have no intention of doing you ill,” Lord Stark says kindly. Well, what he thinks of as kindly. He could be laughing his ass off and you’d still find him intimidating. But the effort he takes does calm you, if only a little bit. “I wanted to speak with you in private, but I have had difficulty finding you.”

“Oh, I’m sorry! I’ve mostly been wandering the grounds. I wanted to explore. I wasn’t sure if there was anything to do. Not that I’m ungrateful, or bored! My lord, I really, really appreciate everything you’ve done for me. You’ve been so kind. Really.” 

Evidently, you can chat with Jon Snow like it’s no fucking problem but as soon as you get the chance to talk to the honorable Ned Stark, you have a serious case of word vomit. It could be that Ned reminds you a lot of your own father: stern, principled, and wise. It also could be that the man’s, like, seriously built. Stacked like a house.

“It is no imposition upon me, Lady Alyse. In truth, I am glad that you have found a friend in Jon. He often seems lonely,” Lord Stark says. 

Because you made him that way, you think only a little bit venomously. 

“He’s been nothing but kind to me,” you say honestly. “I’m also thankful for his friendship.”

“My lady,” Ned says, then takes a slow, intentioned pause. “I wish to help you, know this. But I cannot do so if you do not tell me the entire truth.”

“I- my lord, I did,” you say. “I have no memory.”

“That may be true, but I thought I would ask you privately if there were any more details you wished to disclose. It is often difficult for people to tell the truth with an audience, you see.” 

“Why do you think I’m lying?” You say suddenly. If Ned Stark, largely considered to be one of the more slow-thinking Lords Paramount of Westeros, believes you to be a liar, then he can’t be alone. He gives you a measured look. 

“To tell the truth, my lady, it is because my son Robb has his doubts about you. Frankly, so do I. It is far from common for anyone, even with head injuries such as yours, to completely forget everything but their own name. Unheard of, even,” the lord says. You know he’s right. It was the best you could come up with at the time, but your best isn’t gonna cut it this time. Goddamn. You really have to get better at lying if you’re going to survive.

“My lord,” you begin, “if I ask you to keep all knowledge I share with you in this room, would you swear to that?” 

His bushy brow furrows. “If my lady so wishes,” he says cautiously. You steady yourself and pick your next words very carefully. 

“I am not from here,” you say. “I’m not from anywhere you’ve ever heard of. Believe me when I say that I truly do not know how I came to be in your godswood, but I will admit I know of my past.”

“What place? I may surprise you.”

“A land called America,” you say. “It’s very, very different from here, and very far away, so I cannot even begin to imagine the magicks that brought me here. It may sound fantastical, but it is all I know.”

He leans back, musing over your words. Lord Stark really does take a long time to parse through his thoughts.

“Is there proof?” he asks. You bite your lip. 

“My accent, for one,” you say, shrugging. “I’ll bet you’ve never heard anything like it. Not even down South. It’s the norm where I come from. And I also have this.”

You reveal your Swiss army knife. What can you say- you were a Girl Scout once upon a time, and Girl Scouts always have to be prepared. You hand it to Lord Stark, who turns it over in his hands with open curiosity. 

“What is this?”

“It’s called a Swiss army knife where I’m from. It has, like, ten tools that you can pull out and use. See?” You tug on one of the handles to show a small pair of scissors, then another for a knife. Lord Stark frowns. He seems grudgingly impressed. 

“Do you know how to wield it?” he asks.

“Well, it’s not really used for that,” you say. “Where I’m from, it’s not common for anyone to be able to use weapons like these. Although I would love to learn, since I’m alone in a new land.”

“You’re not alone,” Lord Stark says. “I believe you.” You exhale. This is huge. Now for the other bomb to drop.

“And- well, there’s one more thing,” you hedge. 

“What is it, child?” 

“I have… knowledge. Or visions, however you’d like to call them. Some of the future, some of the past, some of the present.” This causes him to blanch. You charge forward. 

“My lord, I know. About Jon. About his mother,” you say. Another gamble. He could flip out on you. But hopefully, you can use your silence on the topic as a gesture of goodwill. If you thought Lord Stark was pale before, now he is an entirely new shade of white. He’s immobile.

“But don’t worry, my lord,” you say earnestly. “I won’t say anything. I promise. That secret could get Jon killed if it’s found out, and I would never want him to get hurt. I know you have to keep your promise to Lyanna, to keep him safe.”

It takes a bit, but your words slowly bring Ned back to a state of relative consciousness. 

“How- how could you possibly know that? My promise?” he demands. 

“I told you, I see things,” you say. Please believe me, please believe me- this is the only truth you can swallow.

He processes. After what feels like ages, he looks into your eyes. 

“I won’t tell anyone your secret if you won’t tell mine,” you offer. His eyes narrow. You can see how someone like him might find this arrangement duplicitous, but honestly, anything to get you a stable place in the household. You might need it when winter comes. Ned nods. Another pause.

“Are you any good with numbers?” he asks. Recalling your AP Calculus grades, you almost say no, but then you realize that calculus probably isn’t even a thing in Westeros, so you nod. He rubs at his beard absentmindedly. 

“My daughter needs a companion to help her with her lessons,” he says. “Someone young. Septa Mordane can’t get through to Arya no matter how hard she tries.” 

Holy shit. You try to hide your excitement, but it’s difficult. It’s Arya Stark, for Pete’s sake! The Arya Stark who kills the Night King! The original boss-ass bitch!

“I could do that, my lord,” you say brightly. He looks just as relieved as you to be done with this conversation. Neither of you were really prepared for things to go this way, but hey. At least you’ve got a cushy spot in Winterfell. Well- till the royal family arrives. Then everything will go to shit.

You ponder over this, as you head to your chambers, and don’t realize until you get there that you are still holding the book of dreamers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next up: arya makes an appearance!


	4. arya i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Girl makes Arya annoyed, confused, and curious. But mostly annoyed. Definitely annoyed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um, thanks for reading this! idk why y'all are still here but let me tell ya i really do appreciate it! i do not have a whole ton of time on my hands so i apologize for being unable to update this. i kinda have a vague plan which may or may not occur, it just knew i didn't want to leave this portion of the story unfinished. so here you go!

Jon never has time for Arya anymore. And whenever he does, he’s distracted. By the Girl. Arya calls her the Girl because she hates her too much to use her name. Jon is the only one who ever lets Arya do anything interesting, and when he’s not around, Arya is stuck with stupid Sansa who always yells at her whenever she doesn’t behave, and that’s always, because sewing is so so so boring. Much more boring than swordplay, or horse-riding, or archery. 

So Arya hates the Girl. It’s been over a month since she arrived, and she and Jon are always together. She’s always smiling and laughing around Jon and sometimes Jon even smiles back, which he never does with people other than Arya and sometimes Robb. 

A month, and now Father has made the Girl Arya’s new companion in an attempt to get her to be a lady. He said that she would help Arya with her lessons and keep her out of trouble, but Arya is determined to not let that happen. If Arya can get herself into enough trouble, then Father will forget about the Girl as a companion and make her leave Winterfell so Arya can have Jon to herself again. 

Father wants Arya to be more of a lady by the time the royal party arrives in a week. Fat chance, Arya thinks as she shovels another forkful of mashed potatoes into her mouth. The Girl looks at her, not with disgust, but almost like she thinks it’s funny. She won’t think it’s so funny when she’s thrown out in the cold. 

There’s something off about her, too, something Arya has trouble deciding is good or bad. She can hardly embroider, and though Arya is no one to talk about such things, she knows that any proper ladies’ companion should know how to do that if Sansa can do it. The Girl’s stitches are uneven and almost as crooked as Arya’s! And Father, stern, cautious, Father, is oddly familiar with her. Sometimes it’s like they both know something that no one else does. And the Girl doesn’t even remember anything, except for her figures, which of course she does, because she only exists to make Arya miserable. That’s why Father is making the Girl follow her around everywhere, and that’s why Arya hasn’t been able to practice with her bow at all. 

The Girl leans over to Jon. She sits next to him at nearly every meal. It’s sickening, is what it is. She whispers something into Jon’s ear. Jon looks directly at Arya, so she turns her eyes back to her food to make it look like she isn’t staring. They’re talking about her, she’s sure of it. Why else would they be looking at her like that?

No, Arya doesn’t care for this Girl at all. Which is why, when Jon gets up to leave the table and the Girl follows suit, Arya sneaks away from the family high table to follow them. 

The stone floors of Winterfell make it easy for Arya to stay silent. She’s good at sneaking around because how else would she get to do what she wants to and not just what Septa Mordane tells her? Jon and the Girl move quietly too, just enough to make Arya suspicious. She knows how to get away with doing things in secret, but why do they need to do it too?

They leave the castle. To the godswood. The most secluded place in Winterfell. If Arya wasn’t suspicious before she definitely would be now. She’s heard things about the trysts that take place in all the hidden places in the castle and stumbled upon a few as well. A kitchen wench with Theon, the kennelmaster’s daughter with the butcher’s son, a chambermaid with Theon- in fact, nearly every lowborn girl in the castle Arya has seen fooling around with Theon. Who’s to say that the Girl isn’t persuading Jon to such things? 

The ground outside the castle is marshy and wet. Arya’s castle slippers are nearly soaked through just by walking a few steps, but she keeps going. It doesn’t matter anyway, because Mother will surely chastise her later for sneaking away from the dinner table. 

Arya finds the Girl and Jon in the clearing. She makes sure to be quiet, even though it’s autumn and that means the leaves tend to crumble under her feet rather loudly.  
“Do you have it?” The Girl asks. Jon nods. To Arya’s complete and utter surprise, he pulls a knife out of a sheath at his hip. What in the Seven Hells is that thing for? 

Instead of looking alarmed, the Girl simply smiles and holds out her hand. Jon places the knife there without a moment’s pause. It’s instinctive, this trust they’ve built up. Arya can see it. Anyone with eyes could see it. 

“D’you remember that maneuver I showed you last time?” Jon says. He uses a voice Arya is familiar with. It’s the same one he takes on while teaching her to shoot. Why is he teaching this girl how to use a knife? 

“Yes!” The Girl exclaims. “I’ve been practicing.” She flashes a grin at Jon, who, oddly enough, grins back. Arya is so startled by this that she trips forward, making a scuffle of noise. This is enough for both Jon and the Girl to look up and glance wildly at their surroundings. Clearly Jon’s tutelage is supposed to be clandestine. 

“Who’s there?” Jon challenges. He almost instantly steps in front of the Girl. To her credit, though, she doesn’t cower; she simply grips her knife tighter and guards his back. Arya doesn’t wait for a cue. She emerges from the woodline. There’s a hint of satisfaction that she feels at the way Jon’s eyes widen.

Then the Girl lets loose a curse that Arya has never heard anyone say before, let alone a girl. 

“What are you two doing here?” Arya demands. She crosses her arms over her chest. The Girl matches her pose. 

Jon looks bewildered, but not nearly as upset as the Girl. He runs his hand tiredly through his hair- a motion usually directed at Arya, since she’s the one who continually tires him- and sighs.

“I’ve been teaching her how to use a knife,” Jon says. The Girl, who had been facing away from them, turns back around. “You understand, don’t you, Arya?”

“No,” Arya says immediately- stubbornly- then reconsiders. “Yes,” she admits, because it’s really the same as her using a bow and arrow, isn’t it? Secret weapon use is apparently more common than she once thought. The only reason Arya is angry is because it isn’t her using the secret weapons. 

“Look, I know you don’t like me-” the Girl begins.

Arya snorts.

“-but I really want you to keep this a secret. I want to be able to protect myself, but I know that this kind of thing would probably be frowned upon by Lord Stark and everyone. Please, don’t tell anyone.” 

Arya thinks for a moment. Although the Girl is annoying and always makes Arya do her figures, she does have a point. It is always good for a girl to be able to protect herself in this world. And she can’t blame the Girl for wanting to use a knife, because that would just be plain stupid. Arya sighs, unfolds and refolds her arms.

“Fine,” she says. She turns to Jon. “But you have to teach me too.” 

Jon gives a crooked smile and nods. Arya turns to the Girl, who looks at her with a mix of respect and amusement. Arya grudgingly smiles. This Girl could be alright.

**Author's Note:**

> Comment if you want more/have any plot ideas. I'm down for anything tbh. Let me know what you think.


End file.
